


There's A Crack In Everything (That's How The Light Gets In)

by thesepossessedbylight



Category: Holby City
Genre: (minor mentions only), Brief Mention of a Threat of Corrective Rape [Very Brief], Coming Out, Coming of Age, F/F, Le Marathon de Bernie, Military, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Running From Your Problems Like It's An Ultra-Marathon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2016-12-01
Packaged: 2018-09-02 02:25:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8648188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesepossessedbylight/pseuds/thesepossessedbylight
Summary: Berenice Wolfe has only ever come out to four people in her life. These are the stories of how she came out, how she tried to hide, and how, eventually, she found peace. Note the rating change from chapter 3 onwards!





	1. Perfect Memory

28th April 1981, London.

By the time Bernie Wolfe was sixteen, she knew three things for certain: she wanted to study medicine, she was going to join the Army like her father and grandfather before her, and - 

The week after her sixteenth birthday, her high school history teacher decided that her class would spend an intensive month studying the Holocaust. On the second day of Holocaust Month, one period after lunch, when their teacher was yet to come back from her break, Timmy Wilkins sang a rhyme he’d made up during lunch about the Jews and the Commies and the fags who’d been killed. Bernie walked into the room late, as usual, while Timmy was chanting the verse about how the Nazis killed the gays, and suddenly her lunch did a slow, vicious somersault in her stomach. She walked to her desk in silence, sat down, stared at her hands clenched around her pen and willed Timmy to shut up, but he kept on going. Suddenly she heard a chair clattering to the ground and looked up as Val Pender, a girl Bernie had never actually spoken to but sat behind in both English and Chemistry, stormed towards Timmy and slapped both hands on his desk. He stopped chanting, head jerking to face her. 

“You shut up, Timmy Wilkins!” she yelled, all of three inches from his face. His eyes widened and he took a step away, but sniggers from his mates propelled him back and he folded his arms, trying to look cocky. 

“What’s it matter to you, huh? Why’d you get all upset about the gays anyway?”

Val shook her head, slow, staring at Timmy with her arms folded. “You are so fucking stupid, you know that?”

Bernie understood two seconds before Timmy and his gang parsed Val’s words, and she gasped, a loud sound that echoed in the suddenly-still room. Val looked over to her, seemed to see her for the first time, and a flicker of fear and hope crossed her face before she shoved her hair away from her face with both hands and turned back to Timmy. By this time Timmy had finally realised what Val had said, and he had an unpleasant leer on his face.

“You’re one of them, aren’t ya,” he said, not bothering to make it a question. “Don’t worry - I hear there’s a cure for that. Pretty girl like you…” 

Val scoffed, flipping him off as she turned to go back to her seat, but her flippancy sounded hollow and Bernie frowned.

   
Bernie spent her last period of the day in Chemistry, staring at the back of Val Pender’s head and having a private tussle between what she wanted to do - which was talk to Val after class, offer to walk her home in case Timmy and his minions caught up with her, maybe ask to hang out some time - and what her dad would have told her to do - which was ignore it, and, in his words, ‘let the gays sort it out themselves’. Surely Val would be ok, Bernie thought, scribbling idly in her chemistry text. That being said, she realised, the riots in Brixton three weeks ago had left all of London still on edge, and Timmy Wilkins might be looking for a fight even more than usual.

The minute the bell rang Bernie shoved her text, exercise book and pen into her bag and slung it over her shoulder. As Val walked out a few seconds later she glanced sideways and saw Bernie, slouched against the wall, chewing a thumbnail. She jerked her head slightly, motioning Bernie on, and they fell into step in silence.

The mid afternoon air was cool when they stepped outside the school building, and Val shivered, wrapping her arms around herself. Bernie stared at her as they began walking, eyes jumping from Val’s wild, teased fringe to the studded shoulders of her baggy leather jacket.

“What,” Val said; not a question, Bernie thought, but a statement.

“That was brave today, what you did,” Bernie said, and was proud that her gaze didn’t shake, didn’t give her away.

“You don’t care?” Val asked, gaze flicking suddenly from the road ahead to stare at Bernie for the first time.

“Don’t care what?”

“Don’t care I’m a lesbian,” Val replied, and Bernie felt the loss as her gaze dropped to focus once again on the road.

“Is that what it is,” Bernie said softly. “My dad says the law change in Scotland is stupid. He says if people feel that way then they should keep quiet about it. He says it’s unnatural.” 

“What do you think?” Val asked, turning so they faced each other. Bernie realised suddenly that they’d found their way into the maze of side streets and industrial back roads which lay to the west of the school, and there was no one around. Dead silence lay all around them. 

“I think…” Bernie trailed off. Ran both hands through her hair, pushed it back from her face. Took a deep breath. “I think I felt sick to my stomach today when Timmy was chanting that god-awful rhyme. I think whenever my dad says things about gay people I have to physically bite my tongue otherwise I’m gonna say something - and I don’t know what it is I want to say but I know he’d kill me if he knew. I think sometimes I look at women and I can’t breathe, like there’s a vice under my ribcage and it’s squeezing me tighter and tighter. I think I - holy fuck.” 

She sat down, right there on the kerb of the London road. Let her head fall into her hands and stared at the cobbles between her feet. Seconds later, she felt an arm creep around her shoulders and pull her close. Val was sitting there in the gutter with her, and Bernie stared towards the ground as she said, “That’s why I stood up to Timmy today, Bernie.”

Bernie looked up at her, blue eyes fierce beneath the unruly mop of bright blonde hair. “Does that mean I’m a lesbian?” she asked, and Val hugged her tighter. 

“Maybe,” Val said, and grinned. “Only one way to find out.” She leaned towards Bernie, eyes softening, and Bernie was suddenly unable to look away as she came closer - and closer - 

\- and then they were kissing, and it felt soft, warm, electric, like nothing Bernie had ever experienced before. 

After a few seconds Val pulled away, gently stroking the side of Bernie’s face with one hand. “How’d that feel?” 

Bernie stuttered, suddenly feeling more unsure of herself than she had in the entire conversation. “I - good?”

Val smiled, and Bernie moved her fingers closer to Val’s, leaning on the kerb. “Maybe I am a lesbian?” she said quietly, as she watched Val’s little finger creep over her own.

“You don’t have to decide now,” Val said, and flicked her fringe away from her eyes. “I wasn’t really sure until earlier this year, you know. Not really really sure.”

“Oh,” Bernie said. They sat in silence for a few minutes, as their fingers intertwined between them.

“Come on,” Val jumped to her feet, brushing the dirt of London off her jeans. “I’ll walk you home and you can make sure old Timmy Wilkins doesn’t beat me up.”

Bernie grinned. “I’d like that, Val. And - thanks. A lot.”

Val shook her head as she offered a hand to Bernie to help her up. “Not a big deal, you know that. Let’s hang out again some time.”


	2. Silent Legacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courage is, apparently, relative. Bernie comes out to a friend; it doesn't go too well.

13 June 1987, London.

“I can’t believe Maggie Thatcher got voted in again,” Bernie said, throwing herself onto the couch in her flat with a huff. 

“Fuck, I know,” Marcus looked up from the table, where he was swotting for an advanced anatomy test tomorrow. “I was convinced after the cuts, after so many privatisations - after the fucking miners’ strike! How do people not remember this? - I was convinced she’d be out.”

Marcus was at university studying medicine on scholarship; his dad, and his grandfather, and probably his father before him were all miners up in Yorkshire. They were pleased he’d escaped the dark, uncertain life of the pits, but had no way of understanding what he talked about when he came home for holidays, and it had driven a rift between Marcus and his wider family. He stayed in London for holidays now, with Bernie in their tiny flat, and he told himself he was happy.

Bernie smiled, craning her head sideways to see him from where she lay on the couch. “Don’t worry, darling,” she said. “We’ll be doctors soon enough and then old Iron Lady won’t be able to touch us.” 

“Don’t be so sure!” he said, raising one thick eyebrow. “She’s not touched the NHS much but who knows, she’ll probably privatise that as soon as she can. Anyway, after all the shit my old man went through in ’84 I don’t trust her as far as I could throw her.” 

Suddenly Bernie swung her legs around, landed on the floor in a long, lithe stagger, and righted herself. “That reminded me, actually. I promised I’d drop in on Claudia tonight.”

“Ah come on, Bernie,” Marcus frowned. “You saw her earlier today, surely it can’t be important?”

“It is though,” Bernie said, as she reached for her bag and dropped a kiss on Marcus’ cheek. “She said she had an important interview today and I promised to ask her how it went.”

“Oh, well, if you have to.” Marcus reopened his anatomy textbook. “God knows I’m only your boyfriend, no one important at all.”

Bernie was halfway to the door, shrugging into her baggy leather jacket, and she quickly opened her mouth to respond, but closed it again just as quick. Marcus was obviously in one of his moods; better not to reply and he’d get over it soon enough. 

 

Claudia’s flat was a ten minute walk away, run-down and dishevelled in the same way Bernie’s was. She knocked with her knuckles, ignoring the knocker which she knew was only barely held on with poor-quality glue, and waited, eyeing the rest of the street warily in the darkness.

“Bernie, oh - thank God you’re here,” the door opened and the woman inside stood aside to let Bernie in, swiping a finger under her reddened eyes. 

“Oh Clauds, honey,” Bernie said, closing the door with her foot and gathering the woman into a hug. She was petite, barely up to Bernie’s collarbone, and her wavy brown hair was gathered into a messy ponytail which was coming out on one side. “What happened?

Claudia sniffed loudly. "I interviewed well today, but Pete said if I got the job he'd leave." 

"Shit, Clauds, I'm so sorry," Bernie said, stroking Claudia's hair gently as they hugged. "Did he say why?" 

"Yeah. Turns out he thinks it’s more important I have kids as soon as possible, rather than actually using the damn degree I’ve put all this time towards!”

“But it’s a position at one of London’s top hospitals!” Bernie said, aghast. “He can’t possibly be serious.”

Claudia threw up her hands dramatically, walking backwards down her flat’s narrow hallway towards the kitchen/dining room. “But he is! And this is one spanner in the works I don’t think I can overlook, Bernie, I really don’t. I -” her voice wavered and her face crumpled slightly. “I like him, I really do, but… I don’t see how it could work.”

Bernie pulled her friend towards the saggy couch planted haphazardly in the middle of the room. “You don’t see how what could work?”

Claudia waved her hands again. “Pete, marriage, kids…” she turned to Bernie with a frown. “I don’t know how I could do all of it. All I ever wanted to do was get into med school and become a surgeon. And yeah, of course I wanted to help people, wanted to cure them and save them and make sure they could live, but my mum was a secretary before she married Dad because my granddad said there was no point in her learning how to do anything else, and the day after they got married she gave up work. I don’t want to be like that. But Pete…”

Bernie nodded. “Marcus tried to tell me I shouldn’t come see you tonight. He implied that I should listen to him, just ‘cos he’s my boyfriend. I didn’t even bother talking with him about it, just walked out.”

Claudia squeezed Bernie’s knee. “How are you and Marcus, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” Bernie said softly. “I know he wants to get married once we’re finished with med school, but I want to join the Army and I… can I tell you a secret?” 

Claudia nodded. 

“I don’t think men are for me,” Bernie said, staring down at Claudia’s hand on her knee. It trembled, muscles spasming involuntarily, squeezing her knee tighter.

“You can’t say that,” Claudia whispered, so low Bernie could barely hear her.

“You know what I mean?” Bernie asked, and Claudia pulled her hand off Bernie’s knee, turning her hand over so the palm faced towards the ceiling.

Claudia stared at her own hand, blinked hard. “You can’t say that,” she repeated a little louder, “because this is just the way things are. We just have to cope.”

Something inside Bernie cracked. “I don’t want to cope!” she said. “I don’t want to give up my career - I’m a better damn surgeon than Marcus, you know that? Everyone in our class knows it, even the lecturer, and he’ll still call on Marcus over me because he’s sure I’m going to waste everything when I get married and have kids and give up work!” Dimly, in the back of her mind, Bernie was aware she’d leapt to her feet and was shouting, voice echoing off the thin walls of the flat. “I don’t damn well want to settle for a part time job as an agency doctor, fitting it around my kids’ school hours, when I could be on the front line, doing cutting edge work. I want what Marcus and Pete want, what John and Pierre and Lawrence in my anaesthetics class want. But somehow I can’t have it, because at some godforsaken point I might decide to have kids - and then it’s game over! Fucking hell.”

Bernie stopped. The room was silent, except for the pounding of her heartbeat she could feel in her ears. She looked down towards the couch. Claudia was shaking her head, tears in her eyes. 

“What?” Bernie asked, and Claudia tilted her head back, running a finger under her eyes in a vain attempt to prevent the tears that fell. 

“I’m not brave like you, Bernie,” she said, and her voice cracked a little.

Bernie spluttered. “Br- me?”

“Yeah,” Claudia said as she stood up. “You want so much, and you’re so unafraid of going out and getting it.” 

Bernie laughed, a harsh, mirthless bark. “I’m afraid all the damn time, Claudia, don’t you see?” 

Claudia rolled her eyes. “You’re the top in our class, Bernie. You’ve got Marcus, you’re going to get an amazing job when you’re done - why could you possibly be afraid?”

Bernie opened her mouth. Shut it again. Tried to explain. “I explained it to a girl I once knew as feeling like there’s a vice around my ribcage, squeezing tighter and tighter and sometimes I’m afraid I’ll suffocate. I can’t keep doing this.”

“What are you scared of, though?” Claudia asked. 

“I want to dump Marcus,” Bernie mumbled. “He’s a lovely guy, but - fuck. Men… are…” Bernie’s gaze fell almost subconsciously to Claudia’s lips, and she swallowed, hard. “Not for me,” she gritted out, eyes closing briefly as if in anticipation of a one-two punch.

“Oh. Oh,” Claudia took a tiny step back. “I, uh. I didn’t know.”

“It’s not exactly something I tell everyone.” Bernie grimaced. “Don’t pass it on - please? I couldn’t bear it if anyone found out.”

“No - of course - I won’t tell anyone,” Claudia said, eyes darting to the couch. “But I think you’d better go now.”

Bernie’s face fell, but she picked up her jacket and bag as she marched herself to the door, trainers almost silent on the wooden floor. She reached out and turned the handle of the door to open it, but hesitated; and then she turned around, and in one long rush, said, “Just - Claudia - promise me you won’t be scared. Promise me you won’t settle.” 

Claudia shook her head, her dark eyes lovely and full of sadness, and said, “I can’t promise that, Bernie. I’m sorry.”

Bernie turned, aghast, stumbling down the stairs towards the street. She walked home, hands plunged deep into the baggy leather jacket that had once been a gift from the only person who had ever really understood her.

The next day she filled out the application form for the Royal Army Medical Corps.


	3. At Ease, Soldier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An old friend comes back to haunt Bernie; Bernie doesn't exactly enjoy being haunted.

15 July 2007: Operation Telic X (Iraq War), outside of Baghdad, Iraq (34th Field Hospital, RAMC).

 

Bernie pulled off her sunglasses, squinting into the glare of the mid-afternoon sun reflecting off the desert. She stood strong and tall, cutting a lithe figure in her combat fatigues as she supervised soldiers unloading medical supplies off a supply truck. Above the walls of the field hospital, the sky billowed a sickly yellow-grey with smoke as fires established by the bombs which had exploded earlier in the day burned on.

 

Bernie and her team had landed near Baghdad on the 4th of June, and since then they had been working day and night to support the RAMC personnel who were already stationed here. Saddam Hussein had died six months earlier, and since that time civilian and paramilitary violence had spun out of control. The midnight curfew in Baghdad, previously poorly-enforced, had become an imperative tool to control the violence, and every day Bernie treated soldiers who had been mutilated by IEDs and other bombs. She heard - although she had no way to verify this - that the civilian hospitals were having an even harder time keeping up with the civilian wounded, and sometimes she wished she could do something - anything - more than the little she was able to do.

 

“Lieutenant Wolfe!” a voice barked from across the compound, and Bernie spun on her heel and saluted. Bernie’s senior officer, Major Wilmshurst, marched towards her, spine rigid.

 

“Wolfe, a large number of casualties are going to be coming into camp in the next few minutes. I need your team to deal with them - you’re the best surgeon we’ve got, no matter what Captain Harborne says.”

 

“Yes ma’am!” Bernie ripped off a perfect salute, and Major Wilmshurst’s mouth twitched, just slightly.

 

“Well, get to it then,” Major Wilmshurst said, and turned sharply on her heel.

 

“Yes ma’am!” Bernie said, “Thank you ma’am!” 

 

Bernie marched briskly away towards the eastern side of the camp, where all casualties would come in, already calling up a support team of medical personnel who rushed to comply with her orders. 

 

A few minutes later, standing with her team at the eastern entrance to the camp, Bernie heard shouts, high-pitched over the roar of armoured vehicles approaching from the east. And then, abruptly, the armoured convoy was upon her, and an uninjured soldier jumped down from the passenger side of the first vehicle and raced up to her. 

 

"Wounded?" Bernie asked, loud above the noise of injured soldiers being dragged from the vehicles. 

 

"Yes m'm, seven. Three critically."

 

"Shit," Bernie swore softly as she turned to her team. “Patel, Llewellyn, Green, get these soldiers somewhere flat.”

 

The three Second Lieutenants jumped to obey her orders, and she turned back to the uninjured soldier. 

 

“What happened to them?” she asked, running an eye over the soldiers as they were carried past on stretchers. Some RAMC doctors preferred not to know much about munitions and weapons, thinking it violated their Geneva Convention non-combatant status; Bernie preferred to know as much as she possibly could about everything, and had deliberately sat in on weapons training during her own, hectic course at Sandhurst.

 

“One stepped on an IED, ma’am,” the soldier said, shaking his head. “He didn’t make it, but the others did.”

 

“Shit,” Bernie swore again. “Was the IED conventional or dispersive?”

 

“Didn’t get a close enough look, ma’am, but several of the injured have shrapnel wounds, so I’m betting on dispersive.”

 

“Well that certainly makes life a little harder,” Bernie said as she strode towards the camp’s operating area. “Llewellyn!” she shouted, and the Second Lieutenant turned around, slapping Patel on the back from where they were pushing one of the stretchers into the sanitised area of the operating bay.

 

“Several of them have massive shrapnel wounds,” Bernie started when she was close enough to Llewellyn to speak without shouting. “We’ll start on them first, I think.” 

 

“Yes ma’am,” Llewellyn said, and then hesitated. “There’s a soldier here who says she wants to speak with you.”

 

Bernie shook her head, lifting the opaque plastic flap that functioned as a door to the operating bay and walking to the makeshift sink to wash her hands. “Unless it’s one of my seniors, it’ll have to wait until after I’ve finished operating. These men need my attention -”

 

Llewellyn had grabbed her by the arm, and she levelled at him the glare of an outranking officer. “Second Lieutenant!” 

 

He shook his head as she pulled her gloves on, saying, “Sorry, Lieutenant Wolfe, but - she’s here.” 

 

“Who’s here?” Bernie asked, feeling the anger at his arrogance seep through her veins. “Let me do my damn job, Llewellyn.”

 

“Colour Sergeant Pender, ma’am. Came in with the injured soldiers. Very keen to speak with you.”

 

“Pender?” Bernie asked nearly silently, holding her gloved hands in front of her. Her voice seemed to have deserted her - and then the plastic flap lifted and Colour Sergeant Pender stepped into the tent. 

 

“Hello, Bernie,” she said. 

 

Bernie’s eyes widened, and she squeaked, “Val.” And then she grimaced, whirled on her heel, and ducked into the operating room.

 

 

 

Bernie lingered in the operating room after she'd finished operating and the injured soldiers had been taken away to the minuscule recovery room. She wasn't afraid of talking with Colour Sergeant - Val, she thought desperately, her head spinning. Val had kept her secret through high school, and Bernie had no reason to think that she'd let it spill now, but even her presence, or the implied possibility of her presence in the future, caused Bernie's concentration to falter, caused her to lose track of which artery she was meant to be suturing. Not ideal. 

 

She heard the plastic sound of the entrance flap being drawn aside, but didn't bother to turn around. Stripping off her bloodstained gloves, she threw them in a bin, soon followed by her plastic operating apron. 

 

"Bernie," a voice came from behind her, and Bernie hung her head. 

 

"Bernie," the voice came again, and this time Bernie turned around. 

 

Val had grown since high school. Her unruly, bright blonde hair had been smoothed out, cropped short, and had regained its natural colour of reddish-brown. She stood tall and straight facing Bernie, every inch the seasoned career soldier. Bernie's face crumpled abruptly and she buried her face in both hands. Val bounded over to place a hand, gingerly, on Bernie's shoulder, and it was as if the career soldier had dropped away and the sixteen year old had returned, even if only for a moment. 

 

"I couldn't save one of them," Bernie mumbled. 

 

"Private Bernard?" Val asked, and Bernie shrugged. 

 

"I don't know." 

 

"Tall, dark hair? Handsome in an offbeat kind of way? He was closest to the blast when it happened."

 

"Maybe," Bernie replied. "He sustained massive internal injuries I simply couldn't fix, and his face was badly damaged from shrapnel, so yeah. It might've been him." 

 

Val nodded, wrapping both arms around Bernie. "Might've been," she said, and her fingers tightened around Bernie's shoulder. 

 

Bernie rested a hand on Val's arm, slung across her chest. "I didn't know you joined the army," she said, and Val laughed, the sound vibrating low in her rib cage.

 

"I didn't know you joined the army, either," she said. 

 

"I did medical school first, worked for ten years and then signed up with the RAMC. You must have joined straight out of school though, did you?" 

 

Val winced slightly. "Not quite- I joined when I was twenty two, straight out of an idiotic idea to follow my girlfriend of the time to Germany when she got a scholarship to study anthropology. You remember my language at high school was French, and - honestly? - I'd have followed her anywhere, but not Germany. Fucking declensions. So it was the army for me, and I've not looked back since." 

 

Bernie blinked. "Wow, that's... quite a journey." 

 

"Isn't it, though?" Bernie was able to feel Val grinning against her side, breasts - encased in their dark green jacket - pressed tightly against her arm. Dimly Bernie thought to herself that Val shouldn't have taken off her armoured Kevlar vest, not here, not in a war zone, but her breath stuttered nonetheless. 

 

“What about you?” Val asked, turning slightly so she and Bernie were face to face.

 

Bernie pulled herself away from Val’s arms, wrapping her own arms around herself tightly. “I… got married,” she said, and trailed off.

 

“Oh,” Val said, eyes wide. “You - right. I suppose I should be congratulating you.”

 

Bernie grimaced. “I think I’d rather you didn’t, to be honest. It is what it is, and he’s a good man, but…” 

 

Val had cocked one eyebrow, gazing unabashedly at Bernie’s lips. Bernie felt herself blush, and shook her head slightly, like a dog shaking water off itself.

 

“Tell me,” Val said, and stopped. Licked her lips unconsciously. “Tell me a secret.”

 

Of all the words to come from Val’s lips, Bernie had not expected this, and she let her arms drop.

 

She stuttered. “A s- a secret?”

 

“Yeah,” Val said, throwing the words out as if issuing a challenge. “Anything you like.”

 

Bernie laughed, a bitter kind of groan. “Alright, here you go. I don’t love my husband, but I’m terrified of changing anything. Bet you didn’t see this happening back in ’81.”

 

Bernie watched, astonished, as Val’s grey eyes filled with tears.

 

“I’m so sorry,” Val said, as she stepped forward, wrapping one hand around the back of Bernie’s neck. Bernie’s skin tingled where Val’s fingers touched, and she leant forward slightly, bowing her head as if seeking absolution. 

 

Val kissed her, softly, barely there, on the forehead, and Bernie’s breath shuddered out. 

 

“You’re so beautiful,” Val said under her breath, and Bernie wound both arms around Val to pull her closer. Val kissed her again, this time on the very edge of her jaw, saying, “I could never forget you, Bernie.” 

 

This time, when Val pulled away, Bernie was the one to close the distance and bring their mouths together. And oh - it was just as she remembered it, sitting on a dusty kerb in London. The moment their lips touched Bernie felt out of breath, as if all her composure and training and skill had suddenly deserted her, and all that was left was her body’s raw want. Val was hot against her chest, both hands fumbling at her jacket. Bernie stumbled, and Val took the opportunity to guide them towards one of the walls of the tent - not a wonderful support, but better than the middle of the room. Bernie pulled away - we can’t do this here, are you sure you want this? this is such an unbelievably bad idea - but Val pulled her close again, and Bernie’s hands found their way to the soft, taut skin of her stomach under her jacket. She had definitely lost the Kevlar vest somewhere between arriving with the injured soldiers and confronting Bernie in the operating tent, and not only that but - oh God - Bernie’s brain shortcircuited; somehow she’d been foolhardy enough to lose her bra. Bernie pulled away from the kiss abruptly, buried her face in Val’s shoulder, and groaned, hands edging their way upwards to Val’s breasts. At Bernie’s touch, Val’s head rolled backwards, and she shuddered out a moan, long and low. 

 

“Quiet!” Bernie muttered. 

 

“Yes, Lieutenant,” Val murmured as she tore down the fly of her fatigues, and Bernie hissed, suddenly aroused beyond all reason.

 

Emboldened by the look in Val’s eyes, darkened with desire, Bernie cupped Val’s mound, saying, “Yes?” At Val’s nod, Bernie kissed her again, sliding two fingers through her wetness and into her body. Both women buckled slightly at the knees, but Bernie rapidly found a rhythm and soon Val was moaning, low but _continuous_ as she tried to capture Bernie’s lips again. And then Bernie found Val’s clit with her thumb and - one, two, three - Val was coming, shuddering around Bernie’s fingers, hands tightening unbearably around Bernie’s neck, mouth open, eyes shut. Bernie held her through the aftershocks, kissed her gently, once, twice, zipped up her fatigues for her, and stood back. Val’s eyes shot open, and she reached for Bernie.

 

“Let me -” she said, a little hoarse, but Bernie shook her head slightly, although she was aware she was panting as if she’d run an ultra-marathon and was probably wet enough to have soaked through to her fatigues. 

 

“It was good to see you again, Val,” Bernie said, and Val’s eyes darkened. 

 

“Don’t do this,” she said warningly, and Bernie shook her head again, a microscopic movement that somehow managed to encapsulate all the hurt and terror Bernie had ever felt. 

 

Bernie snapped to attention. 

 

“Colour Sergeant Pender!” she said, and executed a perfect salute. She turned on her heel and walked out, every inch the soldier.

 

Inside the tent, Val slumped back against the plastic wall, satiated, devastated. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Royal Army Medical Corps (RAMC) are non-combatant units attached to combatant divisions. Their non-combatant status is derived from the Geneva Conventions and so a lot of RAMC doctors take it pretty seriously - often they don’t want to know about different types of weapons, how to fire them, etc. Bernie does know about this, because she feels like she needs to know everything about a situation she possibly can before going in.  
> Also I’ve messed up the ranks a little here - as far as I can tell the RAMC doesn’t have the same division of ranks like the normal army, but Bernie is canonically a Major, which is a normal army rank, so I’ve just gone with that. Another note on that: Bernie’s rank as a Major follows between 8-10 years service; if she retired at the rank of Major in early 2016 she must have joined the RAMC in maybe 2004, 2005 (allowing for training time). I’m not totally convinced by that; I suspect she joined a lot earlier but it’s definitely possible that she put ten years into her medical career post-qualification before joining the RAMC. On the other hand, canonically she’s made comments that make it sound like she took time out from the RAMC in order to have her kids, so what the heck. If Holby isn’t entirely sure of her timeline, then neither am I.
> 
> Also, Major, Lieutenant, Captain, etc are all Officer rankings. Colour Sergeant is a ranking given to soldiers who have worked their way up from the rank of Private. This explains why Val has been in the army so much longer than Bernie has - she’s worked her way up from Private. If she wants to become an Officer, she would need to get promoted to the next rank up (Warrant Officer Class 2) which is eligible for commission as an Officer. Bernie skipped all of that, because she’s part of the RAMC, and went straight in as a Second Lieutenant. By 2007 Bernie’s already been promoted once. Nevertheless Bernie still outranks Val, technically speaking.
> 
> Finally, if you want to read about the types of wounds Bernie would be likely to deal with in Iraq, this is a very interesting read! https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3188083/


	4. Blown Away By You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bernie meets Alex Dawson, a blue-eyed Captain in the RAMC. They nearly get blown up. Bernie saves a life and experiences a failure of self-control. Don't joke about fighting terrorism with the power of the gay, because Bernie and Alex do.

28th April 2013: Operation Enduring Freedom (Afghanistan War), Nahr-e Saraj District, Helmand Province, Afghanistan (RAMC unit attached to 1st Battalion Royal Regiment of Fusiliers) 

The first thing Bernie noticed about Afghanistan was the heat. The wind blew over the desert, picking up sand and grit and bleaching packs and fatigues and boots a light beige, but it never lessened the heat. Bernie had thought the heat of Iraq was bad, but it was nothing compared to Afghanistan, where even the service dogs seemed to droop, tongues hanging out and tails curled between their legs.

The second thing Bernie noticed was that no matter how pointless the war in Iraq had seemed to be, no matter how much her fellow RAMC doctors had muttered in their bunks at night about whether the weapons of mass destruction even existed, they had never doubted that there was an enemy out there. They might not necessarily have been visible, but most of the RAMC personnel had agreed that there must have been a reason why they had been deployed. Nearly six years later, though, the public appetite back home for a war in the Middle East had changed for the worse, and the idea of a prolonged continuation of the war was absolute anathema to the RAMC personnel actually in Afghanistan.

Bernie wouldn’t quite say that she’d longed for this deployment: that would be maybe a little too obvious; but when her orders arrived at her mailbox one blustery November morning she was secretly glad, and took more than a little pleasure in telling Marcus that evening. It dissolved into an argument that ended with him storming out - why does she even bother now? - but that, too, was par for the course and did nothing to decrease her relief that she’d be escaping the civilian life by early March.

So here she was, in Nahr-e Saraj District, Helmand Province, with a rapidly-developing sunburn, boots which were well on their way to being scoured white by the sand, and the nearly-certain knowledge that this time she might have fucked up her marriage beyond repair. Oh well, she thought, and turned to find her barracks. 

Winding her way through the spaces between buildings erected nearly eleven years earlier when the British Army first arrived in Afghanistan, Bernie caught a wisp of conversation, carried on the stagnant air: "We were doing fine without reinforcements, I don't understand why we need more RAMC doctors supporting us!" 

Bernie glanced towards the voice: a tall woman with dark, shiny hair stood arguing with one of the RAMC Captains Bernie had been sent to replace. They would be shipping out in the next few days, after Bernie and her group had settled in, but obviously the tall woman was not taking it too well. And then she glanced over, catching Bernie's look and holding it. Bernie's breath stopped; she stood still, caught in the woman's bright, blue-eyed gaze. 

Bernie tore her glance away, heaving her rucksack more firmly onto her back. "Not again, Wolfe," she chastised herself under her breath. "Marcus might be a damn fool idiot, but he's still your fucking husband. Any more slip-ups like -" she caught the name before it could slip out from behind her teeth, "it's merely a problem of self-control."

But that blue-eyed gaze remained fixed in her mind.

 

 

 

The next day Bernie spent liaising with those doctors her team were to replace, and supervising her team as they set themselves up in the camp. By midday she was sweating and thirsty, unused to the Afghanistan sun and the tedious banality of handover in a British camp, so when the bell for lunch hour pealed, a dull clank designed not to echo around the surrounding desert, she walked towards the mess hall without a second thought. 

Seconds later she felt another pair of boots fall into step beside hers, and she turned. 

"Need some water?" the blue-eyed woman from yesterday asked, offering her a flask. 

"Ugh, yes," Bernie replied, her throat parched. 

As she returned the flask, she held out her hand. "Major Berenice Wolfe," she said, and the other woman clasped it, a firm, calloused grasp. 

"Captain Alex Dawson, also with the RAMC,” she said, and grinned wryly. "I hope you weren't upset by my little outburst yesterday- if I’d known we were going to get _you_ I wouldn’t have been so annoyed!”  

Bernie’s gaze jerked from where it was wandering over the woman - Alex’s - hand, still grasped in her own, and met her eyes.  

“I - I don’t,” she started, and realised she didn’t know how to finish the sentence.

Alex smiled with one corner of her mouth. “Relax, Berenice, your secret’s safe with me.” 

“Bernie,” she said, and then blinked. “If we’re working together you should call me Bernie.”

 

 

 

Despite the warning sirens that screamed inside her head at Alex’s slow grin, her piercing blue gaze, the cant of her hips, Bernie found herself unable to stay away, and they shared lunch together not only that second day, but the third, and the fourth, and the fifth, and so on until Bernie had lost count. Bernie was convinced that Alex knew her secret, and by the time she’d fallen asleep her second night in the camp she’d concocted a dozen excuses, denials, pleas - but she never needed them, as Alex seemed content to have her friendship, an easy give and take which supported both women as they worked together in the camp.  

And then one day they went out on patrol. In later years Bernie would be hard-pressed to remember why they had agreed to go on patrol; RAMC are non-combatant personnel and thus should not be involved in the dirty business of war, but two soldiers in the fortnight previously had stepped on IEDs while on patrol and died before they could be transported back to base, so the brass had decided to send medics out with the patrol. Who knows why the brass do anything, Bernie thought. And Alex and Bernie worked well together, fluid, intuitive, handing each other the tools they needed almost without having to ask. So they were it. 

Nahr-e Saraj District had roads - unsealed, raw dirt roads, but roads nevertheless - but amid the nearly constant warfare throughout the district since the '70s when the Soviets arrived, nobody had ever had the time or the energy to put up road signs. Patrols drove out from the camp in armoured humvees, loud, four wheel drive vehicles which were supposed to give them more protection in an attack. Bernie doubted very sincerely whether they actually did this; she’d tried to save too many soldiers blown to little bits in humvees which had driven over landmines or IEDs to believe the official line. Yet here she was, sitting in the back of a humvee opposite Alex, their armoured Kevlar vests strapped tight to their chests, loaded up with medical supplies but unarmed in compliance with their Geneva Convention status. The unevenness of the unsealed road sent shockwaves up Bernie’s spine every time the vehicle went over a hill, and the next time it did so she tried to anticipate it, raising herself slightly off the seat. It didn't help; her butt slammed hard against the seat instead, bruising her tailbone, and her face scrunched up in agony. When she was able to open her eyes again, she saw Alex doubled over in laughter, fist covering her mouth to keep herself quiet. When Alex looked up, Bernie flipped her off, mouthing ‘Fuck you, man,’ which made Alex double over again. It was adorable, Bernie thought, how predictable Alex was, and how quickly Bernie had learned to read her.

Abruptly though, Bernie stiffened, turning so she faced the approaching road. Her eyes scanned the hills which rose gently up on either side of the road, searching, as her hand reached, almost of its own volition, towards Alex. Hearing nothing, she turned back, met by Alex’s searching eyes and mouthed, “What is it?” 

Bernie shook her head, leaning forward to whisper into Alex’s ear, “I thought I heard something, but I -”

And then the world exploded in a volley of gunfire. Bernie moved without conscious thought, pushing Alex down towards the floor of the humvee and hitting the floor on top of her. In front of them, the soldier in the front passenger’s seat was scrambling to stand in the turret, and within a few seconds Bernie heard the _rat-tat-tat_ of machine gun fire directly above them. A strong hand grasped her upper arm, and Bernie looked down; Alex was on the floor, looking up at her, eyes blown wide with adrenaline. Somehow, Alex’s long legs were slightly spread (by the force of Bernie’s shove, Bernie thought stupidly to herself) and Bernie’s knee had found its way between them. Bernie blushed, heat crawling up her neck, and moved to lever herself away, but a stray bullet hit the pillar between the two windows on one side of the humvee and ricocheted off, sounding a loud _ping!_ as Alex used the sudden spasm of fear in Bernie’s arms to pull her down. Bernie hunkered down as Alex wound an arm around her back, strong and reassuring as the firefight raged above them. Another bullet went _ping!_ against the window and Alex’s breath shuddered, warm against Bernie’s ear. Bernie's skin tingled where Alex's breath blew past her, and she willed her heartbeat to slow. 

Abruptly, the world was quiet again. The driver didn't pause; instead, he accelerated, continuing to speed the humvee along the desert road. Neither did the soldier in the humvee's turret move: he too continued scanning the horizon for fresh threats. On the floor, Alex let her breath out, tightening her arms around Bernie's back. Bernie raised her head slightly, just enough so she could look Alex in the eye; she was unsure what she might have expected, but she was wholly unprepared for Alex's open mouth and eyes wide with adrenaline and - arousal? Bernie thought wildly. She stared at Alex, elated and terrified, and realised that Alex was staring back, eyes fixed firmly on Bernie’s lips. Bernie felt as if she were in a tunnel, Alex’s lips her inevitable endpoint. But then they heard a thud and scrambled to sit upright on their seats as the soldier manning the machine gun in the turret stepped down, back into the body of the humvee.

“Probably Terry,” he said, with a strong Scottish accent.

“Didja manage to get a hit?” the driver asked, keeping his foot on the accelerator.

“I think so, but I’m not sure,” the soldier said. “I’m not convinced it wasnae IDF.”

“I’ll phone forward to Lash Vegas, then, they can deal with it,” the driver said, and punched a button on his radio.

Bernie and Alex were now both sitting on their seats, hands in their laps and eyes straight ahead. The Scottish soldier sat down beside Bernie, taking off his helmet and wiping his forehead dramatically.

“I’m John,” he said. “So don’t ye call me fucking Jock, aye, I’ve heard tae much of that one.”

To Bernie's surprise, Alex was the one to laugh first, and she stuck out her hand congenially, saying, “Alex Dawson, and this is Bernie Wolfe.”

“This the first time you've ever been under fire then, is it?” John said.

Bernie nodded, but Alex shook her head. “I got into a spot of trouble in Iraq a few years ago,” she said, and Bernie turned to look at her in shock. Alex grinned at her, a sideways flash of pure adrenaline.

“Well, all I can say is ye did well, getting yourselves to the floor,” John said. “You’re non-combatants, so there's nae reason for you to be reaching for the guns. Well done.”

 

 

 

Back at camp, Bernie and Alex were allowed to forego a debrief, given that no one was injured during their patrol. They walked to their barracks in a tense silence; by mutual consent they headed for Alex’s barracks, where they pulled off their rucksacks. Alex rolled her shoulders, arching her back with a groan. Bernie’s breath hitched, but she headed for the small toilet attached to the barracks to wash her hands. 

“You did well,” she called from the toilet, as she dried her hands on her fatigues. She felt Alex come up behind her, the heat radiating from her towards Bernie. One hand landed on Bernie’s shoulder, and she turned around as Alex kicked the door shut.

“You saved my life today,” Alex said, eyes blazing. 

Bernie began to mumble something stupid, looking down at her hands twisting themselves into knots in the space between their bodies. 

“It was fucking hot,” Alex continued, and leaned forward, capturing Bernie’s lips in a kiss.

Bernie groaned, open-mouthed, and closed her eyes. Alex’s hands seemed to be everywhere: cradling her face, tilting her jaw the way she wanted it, around her back, reaching under her fatigues to access the warm skin underneath, and Bernie reached out in kind. It was a kiss that felt oddly effortless; no awkward fumbling, no noses or teeth bumping painfully together. Bernie tangled one hand in Alex’s short hair, and Alex tore herself away from the kiss to gasp, loud in the silent barracks.

Bernie mumbled against the juncture between Alex’s shoulder and neck. Nonsense words, she thought, or maybe the most honest she’d ever been, and she slid her hand under Alex’s fatigues towards the sharp angle of her waist, where her lean hips flared. She’d been captivated by that angle since she first saw it, the day she arrived in the camp, and she was gratified by the feel of the soft skin under her fingers and the hard muscles of Alex’s stomach. 

Alex nearly tore the buttons of Bernie’s fatigues in her haste to find skin. Bernie herself tore off her undershirt, exposing her bra as Alex unbuttoned her own fatigues. Alex reached out a hand, slid it up the long column of Bernie’s neck, and kissed her again as she unhooked Bernie’s bra with her other hand. Bernie shrugged it down her arms and discarded it as Alex disengaged from the kiss. 

“Fuck,” Alex said, breathless, staring at Bernie’s breasts. “You’re so goddamn beautiful.” She traced a vein from Bernie’s left armpit down to her left nipple, and Bernie’s breath stopped. Alex’s touch was so light as to be non-existent, and yet Bernie wanted more - wanted everything Alex would possibly give her. Then Alex leaned down and engulfed Bernie’s nipple in her mouth, and Bernie’s breath restarted with a shudder. 

Bernie reached for Alex’s trousers, undoing the zipper awkwardly, distracted by Alex’s tongue on her breast. But when she slipped a hand inside Alex’s pants, finding her soaked through, Alex groaned, sending the vibrations through Bernie to her breastbone. 

“Fuck, yes Bernie, that’s -” Alex broke off, digging her nails into Bernie’s side as Bernie found her clit. 

Bernie hissed from the pain of Alex’s nails, and hissed again when Alex inserted her thigh between Bernie’s legs. 

“I saw you - ah! - looking, in the humvee,” Alex said, breathless, gripping Bernie’s side with one hand and shoving the other down Bernie’s trousers. “I could see you wanted me.” 

Bernie groaned, pressing two fingers into Alex. “All I’ve ever wanted,” she said under her breath, and she felt cracked wide open by the honesty of it. 

“If John and the other guy weren’t there,” Alex continued, beautiful, ruthless as her climax approached, “I thought you might’ve fucked me on the floor, and damn the Terry.”

“Don’t -” Bernie panted, as Alex circled her clit with two fingers. “Don’t talk about John when I’m inside of you,” and she crooked both fingers. 

The breath left Alex in a rush, and she fell forwards slightly as her thigh muscles gave out, blindly seeking Bernie’s mouth with panting lips. She was hot and desperate, hips moving almost without her permission, making tiny, high-pitched noises as she ground down on Bernie’s fingers, and her arousal fed Bernie’s own, rushing her towards her own orgasm. And then Bernie whispered, her mouth only moving away enough to get the words out, “Come for me, Alex,” and Alex came, legs shaking, long neck craned upwards as her body went stiff and her fingers spasmed around Bernie’s clit. 

Alex’s climax surrounded Bernie in a haze of sensory overload, and she shuddered. And then, for the first time - for the first time in Bernie’s life - a woman’s fingers made direct contact with Bernie’s clit, as Alex rubbed once, twice, and - 

Bernie _shrieked_ , climax hitting her with the force of a Chinook helicopter. Unable to support herself, she slid down the wall, Alex’s hand still buried in her pants. They landed in an intertwined pile on the floor, where they stayed, both women breathing hard. 

Alex was the first to move, pulling her fingers out of Bernie’s pants. Bernie moaned softly, pulling her own fingers gently out of Alex as aftershocks jittered up her legs, and moaned again as Alex licked the taste of Bernie off her fingers.

“Fuck,” she started, still breathless. 

“Just did,” Alex grinned, and flopped against the wall to lie haphazardly against Bernie, who barked out a laugh. 

“God, that was fantastic,” Bernie said, a little quieter. Alex leaned upwards to kiss Bernie softly, and Bernie smiled against her lips. The warning sirens in Bernie’s head had gone silent the moment Alex first kissed Bernie, and somehow, they remained silent. Instead of pulling her fatigues on and running from the room, Bernie stayed, catching her breath as she and Alex traded quiet kisses. 

 

 

The next day Bernie and Alex ate lunch together as usual. Bernie was jittery, losing the thread of her sentence several times halfway through. Instead of hurrying off afterwards, though, Alex led them to a deserted corner of the camp. 

“You ok?” she asked seriously, crooking one eyebrow. 

Bernie nodded, swallowed. “Yeah, yeah, just - a lot of work to do, that’s all.”

Alex curled one hand around Bernie’s elbow. “Is this about what we did yesterday?” 

Bernie stepped forwards, into Alex’s personal space, so she wouldn’t have to make eye contact. “I’m meant to be married,” she mumbled, voice cracking slightly.

“Oh, darling,” Alex said softly, gathering her into her arms. “It doesn’t have to mean anything if you don’t want it to.”

“But I do,” Bernie said into Alex’s shoulder. “It did mean something. It - it does mean something.” 

Alex gently moved her so they were eye to eye. “It means something for me too,” she said, and Bernie sobbed, wrenched from deep in her chest, as they kissed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terry = Taliban. IDF = indirect fire (with no direct site of target). Lash Vegas = the British Army HQ at Lashkar Gah (main city in Helmand Province). For more interesting slang used by foreign troops in Afghanistan, check out http://www.bbc.com/news/magazine-29757988  
> Bernie’s camp in Nahr-e Saraj District is very clearly a forward operating base, so it’s pretty basic; it lends itself well to her DIY, gung-ho attitude.
> 
> Chapter title is from 'Blown Away' from Heather Peace's (who plays Alex on the show!) EP "Come Home". It's rapidly become one of my favourite records so you should definitely check it out <3


	5. How the Light Gets In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something to be said for good old British reserve? Not if it's something you're hiding behind.

February 2016: Holby.

Bernie didn’t regret what had happened with Alex in Afghanistan; she was self-aware enough to realise that it was probably the most happiness she would ever be allotted. But Holby City was home; Holby was England, and ordinary, and everyday. Thus whatever madness had overtaken her in Afghanistan would have to be put aside at the English border. Anything else would be merely a failure of will, Bernie thought; some fundamental lack of restraint. To continue the relationship on home soil would be a loss of self-control on a monumental level, and as such must be prohibited, whatever the cost. Instead, Bernie resolved to do whatever was needed to patch up her marriage with Marcus: leave the Army, get a job in a civilian hospital, smile and laugh at Marcus’ jokes and pretend to be aroused when he touched her, pretend and pretend and pretend and -  

The sex didn’t last; Bernie and Marcus had sex a couple of nights after she was cleared by her surgeons, and she did not climax, even after she slipped a hand between their bodies to rub at her clit. Giving up on the climax, she moaned, sounding fake to herself, but Marcus came with a grunt and later commented both snidely and obliviously that it must’ve been the first good fuck she’d had in years. She did not blush. She did not slide lasciviously against him with a lopsided grin, the way Alex used to. Instead she waited, breath deliberately level, until Marcus dropped off to sleep, and edged her way out of the bed, padding with bare feet into the bathroom, where she locked the door, leaned against it and brought herself off, two fingers sliding against her clit the way Alex always did. She tried not to think about Alex, tried not to picture the tendons in her neck straining as Alex leaned against her in coital bliss; tried not to remember the feel of Alex’s mouth against hers; tried not to remember the one time Alex brought her off with her mouth, terrified and aroused beyond all reason by the possibility of discovery - but that was it, that was the image she needed and she came, shuddering against the door as her hips jerked and tears leaked from her closed eyes. She stilled, pulling her hand away and stepping to the sink to clean herself off. But she couldn’t seem to stop weeping: slow, silent tears which tracked their way down her cheeks and collected at her chin. She sniffled suddenly, and it was like a dam burst, and she sat down on the closed lid of the toilet and burst into tears in earnest, great, heaving sobs which left her breathless and panting unevenly for air. When she stilled, when the sobs had quieted to smaller sobs and then, finally, into silence, she wiped a hand under her eyes, blew her nose on a piece of toilet paper and stood up to look herself again in the mirror. Cooling her hands under the cold tap, she laid them over her eyes, mumbling, “It’s only a failure of will, Wolfe. It’s just a matter of self-control.”  

When she walked back into the bedroom, tiptoeing silently on the balls of her feet, she realised she needn’t have bothered with her silence: Marcus lay fast asleep and spread out, sprawling greedily over Bernie’s side of the bed. Bernie frowned as the thought that he wouldn’t do this if she had just damn well been _home_ more raced lightning-fast through her brain, but she gathered a blanket and went to sleep on the couch in the living room instead. It was more comfortable there, anyway; long nights and bad bunks in Afghanistan will change your perspective like that, she thought.

 

  

And then she met Serena. To her dying day Bernie was never sure what her first impression of Serena had been. Bernie had taken one look at Alex and _known:_ you’re like me, she’d thought, you and I are the same. Not so with Serena, who had seemed kind; flirtatious, but in that way in which some heterosexual women are, flirting with other women because they know it’s safe. Still, Bernie had let slip far more than she’d ever intended to:  

“You’re meant to light it!” Serena had said, gesturing with her cellphone towards Bernie’s cigarette. 

“My husband made me quit when British forces left Helmand,” Bernie had said, and winced, because talking about the Army was not a safe topic, not given her recent resolve to patch things up with Marcus, but continued: “I tore up every cigarette I had except this one. Thought I’d keep it as a symbol of my freedom, my old independent self.”  

Serena had grinned wryly. “As symbols go, it’s a bit pants,” she’d said, and Bernie had grinned and let her get back to her steaming car.

Nice woman, Bernie had thought. Beautiful eyes. But that had really been it.

And yet that single comment got under Bernie’s skin, and that night she lay awake on her couch, mind racing as the memory of that single comment replayed endlessly in her mind. _As symbols go, it’s a bit pants - bit pants - bit pants - bit pants_ and maybe eventually she slid into a restless sleep, filled with visions of Serena’s eyes and lips, her comment a consistent soundtrack to her dream.

 

 

And then Alex came back and Bernie _yearned,_ heart and mind and body united in their longing for this woman. Her nerves were set alight as their eyes met over an operating table and Bernie held a man’s heart in her hands. Their failure to save their patient felt almost secondary to Bernie’s intense longing for Alex, desperate and all-consuming and visceral. Alex’s touch - three soapy fingers at most - on Bernie’s lower arm as she attempted to comfort her after their failure, sent an electric jolt of arousal through Bernie, who had never realised how starved for touch she was. 

When Bernie retreated to a changing room to calm her racing heart, Alex followed.

“You need to tell me the truth,” Alex said, sitting slightly apart from Bernie. “You said you loved me, and you - went back to your husband and all I got was a phone call.”

“I thought it was the right thing to do,” Bernie said softly. “You know me, I’ve always liked sticking to the rules.”

“Not all of them,” Alex said, and smiled through her grief.

Bernie shrugged, helpless and scared. “Thought I should try and make a go of it, with Marcus. Thought I at least owed it to him to try. But I was wrong,” she said as her voice cracked. “I never even thanked you for getting me out of there. You saved my life.” Bernie gazed at Alex, really seeing her for the first time that day. “Thank you.”

“You changed your hair,” Alex said, inconsequentially - but there was a hint of the old Alex there,kind and in love with Bernie.

Bernie smiled. “I have tried my best,” she said. “It’s not just the Army I miss. It’s working with you.” Alex’s hand felt warm and familiar against Bernie’s, and Bernie felt a spasm of desire as she remembered this hand buried inside her, bringing her off, a thousand different times in a thousand different places.

“Working with me, is that all? Cos-” Bernie realised with horror that Alex was near tears, choking them down to continue talking. “I’ve missed my best friend, my love,” Alex said, and Bernie felt a visceral stab of pain in her chest as she realised how much Alex still cared.“That’s the thing I’ve missed so much.”

Alex sobbed as she reached for Bernie, breath gusting hot against Bernie’s mouth as Alex’s long neck craned upwards towards Bernie. They kissed, and it was like a homecoming. Alex was crying steadily, eyes dry but gasping in uneven sobs, and Bernie swallowed Alex’s grief and loss and desperation. Bernie reached for her, eyes closed, moving her hands on pure muscle memory -

and then Dom barged in and Bernie leaped up, military-fast, before Alex had a chance to react.

“I'm sorry,” she said, stuttering through her terror as she sanitised her hands, hoping it could wash away her bone-deep longing for Alex. “I can’t - I can’t do this.”

 

  

Her dreams that night were filled with Alex. Dom’s words, from later that day, played in a constant soundtrack: 

“… how wonderful life would be if only I was brave enough.” 

“Do you feel brave enough now?” 

“I think I might be.”

“Ms Wolfe, anything is better than living a lie. Believe me, I know; I’ve been there, I’ve done that. You just have to be honest with yourself. It gets better.” 

 

 

A few days later, she confronted Marcus over breakfast. 

“I want a divorce,” she said, setting the cornflakes box down on the counter with a thump.

Marcus looked up from his iPad, where he was reading the latest edition of the British Medical Journal online. “Sorry, what?” he asked, and then stared as he realised what Bernie had said. 

“It’s not working,” Bernie continued, shrugging and snagging a single cornflake out of the bowl. “I’m sorry. I thought I could make it work, but I can’t. I’ll clear my stuff out tonight.” She turned, ducking out of the kitchen as quickly as she could. 

Later that day she got a text from Marcus. It read: “Fine.”

And then the entire hospital found out about Alex. Bernie should probably have been ashamed of how poorly she’d reacted; how she’d publicly blamed Dom for the leak, how once again she’d tried to run. How once again her first thought had been to hide everything, to make sure Marcus didn’t know. Yet standing in the operating room after Marcus walked out, Bernie felt emptied out, cleansed. She closed her eyes in silence as she realised that she no longer had anything left to lose.

 

 

When Serena returned from her suspension, Bernie agreed to Hanssen’s request to ‘babysit’ Serena because she thought, “Well, why not?” That was all; it wasn’t because Bernie genuinely thought she could help Serena - hell, the woman would have done well in the army, she was so efficient - and it certainly wasn’t some grand plan to get closer to Serena. No; the only reason Bernie agreed to babysit was because if she hadn’t agreed, Hanssen would have asked someone else, and that would have been much less fun for Bernie.

But hell, she liked the woman, and so when Guy Self was on the verge of chewing Serena out for wasting his time over a patient, Bernie jumped in. “Actually, Guy, the neuro assessment was my idea. I wanted to be absolutely sure we weren’t dealing with a head injury.” She smirked at Guy as he walked off because _god_ the man could be annoying sometimes, and then noticed Serena staring at her with a slight frown, mouth open. 

“What’s your game,” Serena asked, tucking herself alongside Bernie like she belonged there.

“No game,” Bernie replied, looking Serena in the eyes briefly before turning. “I was out of order.”

Bernie could feel Serena’s eyes tracking her as she walked away, and she grinned to herself. There, she thought; she’d repaid Serena for being so damn nice about everything with Alex, and now they were even, and Bernie could go back to being a sad mess of a human being in peace.

The last thing she expected Serena to do was to call her into Hanssen’s office. 

“Much as it pains me to admit it,” Serena said, twisting her hands in front of her. “My situation at home with Jason and his needs has been somewhat overwhelming. Ms Wolfe’s presence today has not been… without its uses.”

Bernie raised an eyebrow, staring down towards a corner of Hanssen’s desk, and opened her mouth to say something, but Serena continued, “And apart from nominal rank, there is no denying that we are equals.”

This, Bernie would never have been able to predict. She raised her head, gazing at Serena with wide eyes, and was shocked to realise that Serena was gazing back as the moment stretched out between them. Bernie’s heartbeat rose, thundering in her ears. _Equals._ Bernie had never even considered - her life had always been bounded by rank - Serena wanted to - 

Serena tore her eyes away as she took a deep breath, began talking again, but Bernie continued gazing at her, mind lost - _equals_ , she thought wildly - until Hanssen said, with a note of exasperation, “Ms Wolfe?”

Bernie snapped her eyes to the front. Hanssen was glaring at her, his thick eyebrows drawn together. “Sorry sir,” she began, and realised she had no idea how to finish her thought. She gestured slightly with her hands, and somehow Hanssen’s face softened. 

“Ms Campbell was just suggesting you should lead AAU together, Ms Wolfe. What do you think?” 

“I, uh-” Bernie started, turning to gaze out the corner of her eye at Serena. She was startled to discover Serena already looking at her, beautiful dark eyes wide, a small smile tugging her lips upwards, and Bernie turned to look Serena full in the face. “I’d like that,” she said, grinning with one corner of her mouth. “I think I’d like that very much.”

“Excellent,” Serena said softly, a whisper maybe only the two of them could ever hear. “Friends?”

Bernie grasped Serena’s outstretched hand firmly, feeling the strength of Serena’s fingers, long and straight and true. “Friends,” she said.

 

 

They worked well together, Bernie thought later. It was surprising, really; she and Serena were so different, but sometimes in theatre Bernie got the same hallucinatory, hazy feeling she’d once shared with Alex: there was no need to ask Serena to pass her a scalpel, no need to remind her to clamp an artery once Bernie had finished with it; they worked together smoothly, an easy rhythm of give and take and give. There was no need for Bernie to try and slow down around Serena, either: Bernie could make rapid-fire comments and arguments in emergency situations and Serena would not only keep up, but debate with her in the same manner. Bernie felt giddy and elated every time Serena bantered with her over an operating table, dark eyes flashing above her mask. Bernie had been sure she’d never find that feeling again, sure that no one else could possibly understand how much she needed the intellectual stimulus and sense of camaraderie - and yet here she was, operating on patients, filing paperwork, organising junior doctors, and loving it, because Serena Campbell was at her side through it all.

So when a train crashed on the day of Arthur Digby’s funeral, sending dozens of critically injured patients to AAU, Bernie caught Serena by the elbow as she dashed by, and proposed an old army technique which would lessen the strain on the ward. To her utter surprise, Serena agreed, standing back as Bernie burst into action. 

“Ok, everyone. Stop what you’re doing and listen up, please," she ordered in the voice which used to ring out over the Afghanistan desert. "I need CT over here, GS here, and you stay where you are, Fletch. We’re going to keep the patients moving through; we need to create a flow, ok? Great." 

Bernie glanced over to where Serena had been standing, and caught her gazing back, eyes dark with pride. Serena tossed off a brief salute, sloppy but full of character, and Bernie grinned, heart filling with fondness as she turned back to her duties.

It must have been the exhaustion, later, that caused Bernie to linger in front of Emir Khalid’s room, listening to his mother and relatives pray aloud. The repetitive, chanted prayers spun Bernie back in time, back to Afghanistan, where a visit to Lashkar Gah at midday would find everyone kneeling, praying the _salat al-zuhr._ But she was aware enough of her surroundings to hear the slight slap of trainers against the floor as someone walked up behind her, and to feel a warmth against her side. She glanced sideways: Serena. 

“Bad memories?” Serena asked, stealing a glance at Bernie before staring down at her clipboard, and Bernie was grateful for the ridiculous pretence at privacy.

“Envy,” Bernie replied, low, and was surprised at her honesty. 

“Of what?” Serena asked. 

“Being able to open up and show all that emotion,” Bernie said. “All that love. Can’t imagine being able to be like that with one of mine.”

In their reflection in the glass Bernie saw Serena look up at her, glancing briefly at her eyes and then her lips, before looking away again. Serena hesitated a little, but said, “Well, there’s something to be said for good old British reserve.”

And then Bernie turned, gazing openly at Serena’s lips, collarbones, the graceful sweep of her jaw, and said, “Not if it’s something you’re hiding behind.” She caught Serena’s gaze as she looked up, and held it, willing her to understand, trying not to get lost in Serena’s stunned, hopeful look. Bernie crooked her lips slightly, tilting her head, before turning to leave. As she moved past Serena, though, she felt more than heard Serena’s breath hitch, just slightly, and Bernie’s eyes widened. She turned around when she was a few steps away, only to find Serena staring, unseeing, at the glass, and when Serena swallowed abruptly and turned back to her clipboard Bernie bit her lip, pleased.

 

 

The idea of ordering a psych eval for James Fielding seemed unnecessary, Bernie thought. The chances that he might actually be dangerous seemed so remote, and anyway, she didn’t want to seem alarmist. Oh, she knew the mental health statistics; she knew depression could sometimes mask other psychiatric issues, but he seemed nice - a bit odd, but harmless. Unlikely to pose any real threat, she thought, and by God she knew how to size up threats.

And then Fletch got stabbed and was wheeled back to AAU on a stretcher, face drained of colour, oxygen mask pumping, and Serena told Bernie to get scrubbed in, voice devoid of blame or recrimination or anger. 

The operating theatre was crowded, Bernie thought, holding a scalpel: Fletch was popular, and kind, and it made sense that people would want to be involved. But this operating theatre was the last place Bernie wanted to be; she’d have taken Iraq’s Highway of Death over staying here. So she operated in a daze, sizing up the situation on pure instinct. Serena’s voice was the one thing grounding her. 

“The screwdriver must've penetrated the heart,” Serena said, eyes fixed on Fletch’s abdomen. 

“You deal with that,” Bernie said, glancing at Serena as she held a hand out for a tool. “I’ll deal with the diaphragm problem.” 

“Looks like a three-inch laparotomy,” Bernie continued, a few seconds later as she held her bloodied hands in front of her. “He’s lost a hell of a lot of blood.” 

“He’s getting colder by the minute,” Raf said, and his Scottish accent was thicker than usual.

“There’s not much more we can do at this point other than stabilise him,” Bernie said quietly, and Serena glanced up from her work, scanning Bernie’s eyes with a worried frown as she agreed. 

“Let’s staple him and get him up to ICU,” Serena said, and sighed.

In the anteroom to the operating theatre, Bernie cleaned herself up in silence, pulling off her gloves, drenched in Fletch’s blood, and undoing her cap and throwing it on a shelf. Serena came in, casting her eyes towards Bernie as she pulled off her own gloves. Bernie stood to one side, staring at the sink as Serena washed her hands carefully. 

“I can’t believe I-” Bernie started, but Serena shook her head, and Bernie froze. Serena pulled a paper towel from the dispenser and dried her hands, thoroughly, making sure they were completely dry, and pulled off her cap and threw it on the same shelf as Bernie’s. 

“Come on,” she said, walking to the door. But Bernie didn’t move, staring at her with wide eyes, and so Serena came back, taking Bernie by the hand and leading her out of the anteroom. They sat down on the floor of the operating theatre, on the only empty space, backs to the door so that they might be undisturbed. Bernie slid herself down to the ground, huddling close to the end of the wall behind her, but Serena tucked herself in beside Bernie, fitting snugly shoulder to shoulder. Her warmth was unbelievable, even now, when Bernie felt cold and frozen, and Bernie felt it seep through her, thawing her from the inside out. 

And then Raf came in. “I’d better go and explain to the kids what’s happened to their dad,” he said, and Bernie closed her eyes in grief as a thousand memories of Afghanistan rushed back, of soldiers she’d been unable to save, of the hearts she’d held in her hands as they ceased beating, despite her desperate attempts at massage, of the superior officers she’d had to inform of times of death.

“Bernie,” Serena said, and she opened her eyes. She was in England. Raf had left, and the operating room was empty. 

“This is all my fault,” Bernie said, unable to look Serena in the eye. 

“What?” Serena asked, and Bernie knew Serena was gazing at her with searching eyes.

“You pushed for an assessment and I fobbed him off,” Bernie said, turning her head slightly. 

“How could you have known things would turn out like this?” Serena asked simply, and Bernie shook her head, looking up at the ceiling to forestall the tears.

“Our friend and colleague is fighting for his life,” Bernie replied, voice breaking slightly.

There was a sudden scratch of plastic against linoleum and Bernie felt Serena’s weight shift as she turned, moving impossibly closer to stare at Bernie.

“And he would be the first person to say that you are the most fantastic, fearless doctor in this entire hospital,” Serena said, and Bernie finally turned her head fully, returning her gaze. Serena’s eyes were fierce, compassionate, and Bernie thought faintly that it shouldn’t be possible for one woman to understand her so completely. And then Serena smiled, soft and kind, and Bernie’s gaze tracked the movement of her lips, and she was lost. Bernie edged closer, shy, eyes flicking between Serena’s lips and eyes, and then she moved lightning-fast, leaning towards Serena’s lips like it was the inevitable result of some eons-long process. They were so soft, and Bernie’s eyes slid shut as she tangled a hand in Serena’s hair. She thought she might lose herself in the feel of Serena’s lips on hers, one hand grasping her arm, and Serena’s scent, heavy and potent here, so close to her, and so Bernie moved back, rested a hand on Serena’s collarbone, and waited, ready to apologise, ready to leave, whatever Serena wanted.

And then Serena’s breath hitched, a quick shuddered intake, and she moved towards Bernie, eyes closed, seeking Bernie’s lips, pulling Bernie bodily towards her by the arm as they kissed again, and Bernie - Bernie fell, utterly, finding some part of the absolution she’d always craved in the slide of Serena’s lips against her and the strength of Serena’s hands.

 

 

When Hanssen gave Bernie the information on the Kyiv trauma unit, she had no real intention of accepting the secondment.

“I’m not sure I’d want to be away that long,” she said, aware of Serena’s gaze from the other side of Pulses. She spoke no Ukrainian, and had never considered even a visit to Kyiv, so although the professional aspects of the secondment looked fascinating, even career-defining, declining it wouldn’t be a massive disappointment - and there was Serena, trying her hardest not to seem like she was eavesdropping.

“Obviously I’d, uh. I’d rather you didn’t go,” Serena said, looking up from the booklet towards Bernie. 

Bernie felt rather as if they were speaking two different languages, one of which she knew not at all. “Really?”

“Course,” Serena said, and her face was so open, Bernie felt scoured clean by its honesty. “I doubt we’d get a locum with your experience,” she continued, and oh, of course - this Bernie understood; professional needs were understandable, coherent, simple.

“Right,” Bernie said, and smiled, but she was unable to make the smile reach her eyes. 

“Well, it certainly reads like your dream job,” Serena said, and held the booklet out to Bernie like she couldn’t wait to get rid of it. “Obviously, I couldn’t - well, I wouldn’t - try to stand in your way, if it’s what you really, really want.” Her voice trailed off as she gazed at Bernie, and Bernie felt herself move towards Serena without conscious thought. She was otherworldly, ethereally beautiful, dark eyes searching out Bernie’s, as she leaned imperceptibly closer. 

It was the slowest build up to a kiss Bernie had ever experienced, and the tension stretched out elastic between them, as Serena’s eyes fell to Bernie’s lips, moving inexorably closer, and then Serena closed her eyes like a giving-in and _finally_ they were kissing. Bernie stood stock-still, nerves electric from the contact with Serena’s lips, unable to move for fear Serena might realise what she was doing - and then Serena moved, one hand wrapping around Bernie’s shoulders, the other around her waist, and Bernie gave herself permission to move likewise. It brought them closer together, Serena’s breasts pressing against Bernie’s and it was Bernie who moaned, low at the back of her throat, but Serena who gasped, a harsh exhale of breath as Bernie wrapped herself around Serena, seeking out the coffee-taste from Serena’s mouth. Both were breathless as they disengaged, and Serena panted out an apology, Bernie’s hand on her collarbone, one finger brushing the side of her neck repetitively. 

“Are you kidding? I’ve been wanting to do that for _weeks_ ,” Bernie said, eyes on Serena’s lips still wet from their kisses, and Serena’s ecstatic smile was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.

Serena’s eyes followed Bernie all day; Bernie could feel them, could feel the heat from Serena’s body as a phantom sensation that crept up on her sometimes when she wasn’t thinking. She felt elated and aroused in equal measure as she remembered the softness of Serena’s lips on hers. 

And then Serena had her epiphany, revealed to Bernie that she was in love with her, dark eyes honest and open as she gazed at Bernie, and the old terror rose up in Bernie, cold and slimy and choking, like deep ocean seaweed, and Bernie ran. Oh, she regretted it nearly immediately, sitting in her car slamming her head against the wheel as she realised that she might as well have torn her still-beating heart out of her chest and thrown it away with her own hand, but the thing was done, the damage was complete, and on the plane to Kyiv the next day she gazed out the window, tears tracking silently down her face as she left Serena behind.


	6. Someone Marches Brave Here Beneath My Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ukraine is both better and worse than Bernie expects: she drinks copious amounts of Ukrainian shiraz and vodka, cries over Russian music she doesn't understand, and, finally, comes back to Serena.

October 2016: Kyiv, Ukraine.

Bernie arrived in Kyiv as winter was beginning to set in. The sky was slate-grey, a light rain falling as she stepped off her plane at Boryspil International Airport. Patrols of Ukrainian police marched through the airport, three abreast, in armoured vests carrying Kalashnikovs, and Bernie remembered that there had been heavy fighting around the airport during the 2014 revolution. She hauled her carry-on upright, shoving her passport into her back pocket, and shuffled towards the exit. 

After some wrangling with the Ukrainian phrasebook she’d bought at Heathrow, Bernie managed to hail a taxi, stumbling over the consonants as she said, “Ya idu do Maidan Neza… Nezalezhnosti?”

The taxi driver grinned, revealing crooked teeth as he said, “You speak English?” 

Bernie sighed in relief. “Yes,” she said, “Sorry.”

“ _Bez prablyem,”_ the taxi driver said. “You go to Maidan, _da?_ ”

“Yes, the hotel on Heroyiv Nebesnoyi Sotni Alley, please.”

“ _Tak, zvisno,_ ” the taxi driver replied. “I know the one.”

They drove off, lurching wildly through the streets as the taxi driver wrangled with the brakes. 

“You know of the revolution at Maidan, then?” the taxi driver asked - Bernie discovered his name was Vadim from the ID card swinging from the mirror.

“I’ve heard of it,” she said cautiously

“I was there!” Vadim replied. “I and my brothers - we were all there! We - what is the word - deposed Yanukovych, the ex-President of Ukraina.”

“Oh,” Bernie said. “What is the new President like?” 

“He is good,” Vadim said, “Less corrupt than Yanukovych; not paid for by the Russians. But we did not want him, not really.” 

“No?” Bernie asked, only half paying attention

Vadim paused, looking sad. “ _Ni_ ,” he said, softer. “We wanted the Lady.”

Bernie frowned, taken aback. “Who?” 

Vadim took both hands off the steering wheel and gesticulated vigorously, nearly causing an accident as another vehicle swerved into his path. “You know!” he said, thrusting one arm through the open window and making a rude gesture to the other driver. “The Lady. She is like our soul, how we could be if we were free of Russia.” 

Bernie shook her head. “Sorry, I don’t-”

Vadim sighed. “Yulia Tymoshenko,” he said, and smiled briefly. “She is like the sun, for us.”

 

 

The apartment owned by Kyiv Trauma and General Hospital, in which Bernie would stay while she was in Kyiv, was found to be dingy, wallpapered in a depressingly 70s-Soviet style. It was also tiny: one bedroom, with a shower and a small kitchen; the toilet was out in the hallway. Perversely, it suited Bernie perfectly. After dumping her bag on the floor of the bedroom (thereby decreasing the apartment's available floor space by at least 20%) Bernie left the apartment, clattering down the steep stairwell to find the liquor store she’d passed on her way up. She’d already looked up several words for alcohol in her phrasebook, and when she found the liquor store, set in a hole in the wall in a nearby block of apartments, she said, very precisely, “ _Vodka, bud laska._ ” 

To her surprise the store owner didn’t blink at her accent, merely saying, “ _Desyat hryven’_.” 

Bernie brandished her card instead of trying to make sense of that - but then she caught sight of a bottle of shiraz, sitting on a nearby shelf, and she pointed, saying, “ _Y -_ shiraz?” 

“ _Tse vino, takozh?_ ” the store owner said, shrugging as he grabbed it. 

Bernie said slowly, “ _Tak, spasibi.”_  

Back at the apartment, Bernie pulled both bottles out of their brown paper bag. She unscrewed the vodka first, taking a large sip - god but it was strong! - before setting it down and throwing herself on the bed. She reached for the shiraz, opening it slowly and taking a long sniff, her eyes falling shut. It smelt like Serena, and she took a long draught straight from the bottle. 

She heard Serena’s voice in her mind. “I don’t - I don’t want you to go,” and she drank again, tilting her head back to get at the wine.

Her lips had been so soft, her hands so strong around Bernie’s back. A tear tracked down Bernie’s cheek. 

“I have been in love before,” Serena had said. “I do recognise the symptoms,” and Bernie chugged back some more wine before swiping a hand under her eyes. She stared, unseeing, at the opposite wall of the bedroom as she drank, remembering Serena’s smile, her desperate, hopeful eyes - her soft lips and the warmth of her breasts - and finally Bernie put her head between her knees on the hard Ukrainian bed, and wept.

 

 

Very few of the staff at the hospital spoke English, Bernie soon discovered. One exception was Marina Guryanova, a young, petite doctor with short dark hair who had been assigned to babysit Bernie as she established the trauma unit. Marina’s English was occasionally eccentric, but competent, and - even better - she expressed little interest in why Bernie had decided to take the secondment. She and Bernie worked well together, and Bernie decided that Marina would some day make an excellent trauma surgeon. 

One day, just past the halfway mark of the secondment, Bernie was standing outside the hospital during a break, smoking. She checked her emails, refreshing them several times to ensure she hadn’t missed anything and found, completely by chance, the last email she’d received from Serena. It was dated a couple of days before she left for the secondment, and Bernie stared at Serena’s contact photo. Serena had obviously changed it, sneaking access to Bernie’s phone while Bernie’s back had been turned: it was one of them, together in Albie’s. Serena was toasting the camera with a nearly-full glass of shiraz, laughing, eyes crinkled, and Bernie was staring at Serena with the most blatant look of fondness Bernie had ever seen.

“Who is she?” a voice came from Bernie’s side, and Bernie leaped sideways, nearly losing her grip of both cigarette and phone. 

“ _Jesus,_ ” she said, turning around. Marina Guryanova looked horrified and immediately started apologising.

“No, no,” Bernie said, once she’d regained her breath. "Don't worry, you weren't to know.

Marina looked a little relieved, and nodded towards Bernie’s phone. “Who is she?” she repeated. “I’ve never seen you look so sad.”

Bernie shrugged. “My co-lead back at Holby,” she said, and glanced back at Serena’s laughing face. “I thought we had something.” 

Marina frowned, glancing between Bernie and Serena’s photo. “You and - _oh_ ,” she said. “You were together?” 

Bernie’s lips twisted. “Sort of. Maybe. She loves me, but I… it was going too fast, and so I ran away.”

Marina nodded. “You should be careful, here, whom you tell. My brother was gay, and I - I don’t care, but my parents do, and they threw him out many years ago.” 

“I’m sorry,” Bernie said, reaching out to clasp Marina’s shoulder, but letting her hand drop, uselessly. “What happened to him?”

“He is dead,” Marina said forcefully. “He was beaten up and left for dead a few months after they threw him out and I will never forgive them - never.”

Bernie closed her eyes, overwhelmed by Marina’s decade-old grief, and she reached out. Marina pivoted, laying her head on Bernie’s shoulder and wrapping her arms around Bernie’s waist, and Bernie buried her face in the soft hair that smelt of Ukrainian shampoo and tried to pretend it was Serena.

 

 

A few weeks later, nursing a shiraz-induced hangover, Bernie walked into Kyiv Trauma’s cafe before the beginning of her shift. The cafe was tiny, on one of the underground floors. It felt like what it was: an ex-Soviet, repurposed bunker, upon which the hospital had been built in the 90s. It suited Bernie perfectly, and so she bought a coffee there every morning before work and a pain au chocolate every evening as she left. This particular day, though, Bernie found a group of Ukrainian consultants from her ward standing around the radio. She wandered up to Marina, saying, “What’s this?” 

Marina turned to her, and Bernie was surprised to see the threat of tears in her eyes. “It is an old song,” she said. “From our teenage years.”

“Oh,” Bernie said, stunned. 

“Yes,” Marina replied, smiling sadly towards the radio. “It is by a band which wrote songs critiquing the Soviet regime, an underground band. _DDT._ We used to buy their vinyls as _samizdat_ \- how do you say it - forbidden, made from pieces of found plastic and the grooves scored by hand. This song, I danced to it with my first boyfriend at the western-style clubs which were just beginning to open in the ‘90s.”

"Could you translate it for me?” Bernie asked, and Marina nodded. 

“Any other song, I probably could not remember the words, but this one, I can,” Marina said, and listened to the song for a long moment before speaking. _“Poets walk away into this final autumn // and you cannot bring them back; the blinds are nailed shut. // The rains only remain, and the icy summer. // Love remains, and the stones that rose from the dead.”_

Bernie stilled, silenced by the beauty of the lyrics and by her own sudden, fierce longing for Serena. “Thank you, Marina,” she said slowly and turned, head bowed, to go up to her ward.

“Bernie?” Marina asked, as if as an afterthought. 

“Mmm?” Bernie replied.

“Your lover - Serena,” Marina said softly. “You should go to her.”

Bernie’s eyes filled with tears, and she nodded, closing her eyes tight at the swell of emotion that threatened to drown her. When she thought her voice might be steady again, she smiled at Marina, a tight, wistful smile, and said, “I will. I swear.”

 

 

When Bernie returned to Holby, she had intended to talk with Serena immediately - but Jason intervened, and then she felt too embarrassed to even _think_ about talking with Serena. And then when Jason mentioned Robbie the white-hot surge of shame and rage at herself, at her cowardice, caught her off-guard, and so she delayed the whole issue until Jason ‘accidentally’ locked them in their office.

“I haven’t been entirely honest with you,” Bernie said, sneaking a glance at Serena, who was staring past Bernie as if she couldn't bear to see her.

“I… like you,” Bernie said, and then she shook her head, furious with herself. “No, God, I - I more than like you.”

“I know I’ve messed things up,” Bernie continued. “I’ve done the wrong things, I’ve said the wrong things, but when I was in Ukraine, there was only one thing I could think about, and that was you, Serena. Still is.”

Serena breathed out, suddenly, releasing some kind of tension. “So what, we pick up where we left off? I was all but begging you not to leave, in front of the entire ward, but you went off regardless?”

“I wanted to commit to you, I did,” Bernie said, staring at her hands. 

“And yet you still left?” Serena folded her arms, and Bernie was suddenly frantic, desperate for Serena to understand.

“We’ve become such close friends,” Bernie said, gazing gingerly at Serena, getting lost in Serena’s eyes, “and I’ve destroyed too many friendships in my life. I got scared, I didn’t want to destroy ours.”

“So all the texts and emails that I sent, you responded to with radio silence?”

“I was rubbish, I know. I’m sorry.” 

Serena moved infinitesimally closer. “Well, I’m hoping something’s changed.”

“Me,” Bernie said, eyes wide as she suddenly realised how very much she _had_ changed. “Me, I’ve - I’ve changed. I don’t want that horrible, empty, lonely feeling, ever again.” 

Serena’s eyes dropped to Bernie’s lips, and Bernie felt an overwhelming sense of surrender as Serena leaned towards her. And then she caught a glimpse of Jason in the window - 

“What’s he doing?”

Serena turned to look, turning back to Bernie in order to say, “I believe he’s playing cupid,” and her voice broke on the last word.

“How’s that, ah. How’s that working for him?” Bernie asked, gazing cautiously at Serena.

“Not very well, given that you’re leaving again,” Serena said, looking her in the eye, honest and true, and Bernie’s surrender was complete

“Well I won’t,” she said, shrugging because it finally felt so _good_ , “if you give me a reason to stay?” 

“Will this do,” Serena said, low, urgent, and leaned forward, finally taking the initiative, and Bernie stretched her neck upwards as Serena’s lips touched hers. Serena’s hands were everywhere, grasping Bernie to her with unprecedented strength, warming her from the inside out as Bernie slid one hand through Serena’s hair, holding Serena to her just as fiercely. 

Faintly, Bernie heard Jason’s voice through the window, and she threw out a hand to close the blinds. Serena slipped both hands up to frame Bernie’s face, kissing her with renewed vigour, and Bernie moaned, deep in her throat, kissing Serena open-mouthed and hungry. Bernie felt dizzy, hyper-aware of Serena’s taste, and her legs shook - and to her everlasting arousal Serena used the opportunity to grasp Bernie by the waist, moving her back against the wall, pressing her _into_ the wall, and Bernie felt the contact as if it were sheet lightning, electrifying her through every single molecule of her pores. Serena’s hands were hot around Bernie’s waist as she broke the kiss, beginning to kiss her way along Bernie’s jaw, and Bernie’s knees gave out entirely and she muttered, “Fuck, Serena,” as she slid one hand up Serena’s neck. Bernie felt Serena’s grin against her neck, a sudden nip of teeth as Serena slid one hand under Bernie’s scrubs top, and Bernie shuddered. 

“Ooh,” Serena said in a voice which was at least half an octave lower than usual. “I guess you like that.

Bernie closed her eyes, sliding her hands up Serena’s back, attempting to regulate her breath as Serena kissed her way back up Bernie’s neck ( _up the aorta, lifeblood to the body,_ Bernie thought manically), and she mumbled, “I don’t think we’re going to get any work done - ah! - today.”

Serena paused, one hand at the small of Bernie’s back, and leaned her head forwards on the wall behind Bernie. “Might as well call it a day, then, since our shift’s nearly over,” she said, as if trying the words on for size. 

Bernie nodded enthusiastically, turning her head slightly to kiss Serena behind her ear. Serena jerked against Bernie, sending her heart rate soaring again, and Bernie groaned.

“God,” Serena said, sounding wrecked as she held Bernie close. “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anyone more, Bernie.” 

Bernie held Serena’s gaze, open and elated as she said, “Me neither. I could never hide from this again. I - I could never hide from you,” and she kissed Serena again, deep and sweet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations of Ukrainian:  
> “Ya idu do Maidan Neza… Nezalezhnosti?” Bernie's very bad attempt at asking if the taxi driver will go to a street near Maidan Square [she actually says 'I go to Maidan Nezalezhnosti?' yes honey, yes you do].  
> "Bez prablyem" No problem  
> "Tak, zvisno" Yes of course  
> "Vodka, bud laska" Vodka please [oh Bernie]  
> "Desyat hryven'" ten hryven' (Ukrainian currency)  
> "Tse vino takozh" This wine, right?  
> "Tak, spasibi" Yes, thanks
> 
> Any problems in transliteration and/or terms are all mine - I did a year and a half of Russian at uni but that Does Not Mean I know Ukrainian!!
> 
> Couple of other notes: I express no political opinion on Yulia Tymoshenko at all! My portrayal here is based on conversations with Ukrainian friends of mine and the excellent documentary 'Maidan' (2014) which I highly recommend. 
> 
> The lyrics from the scene in Kyiv General Hospital are from a song 'This Final Autumn' by the Russian band 'DDT' (name in Russian: В Последнюю Осень) and the story about creating samizdat vinyls from pieces of found plastic is real - I heard it from a friend of mine's mother who grew up in Kyiv in the '70s. Also: Marina Guryanova's last name is a nod to the Russian band Kino (Кино) whose album The Black Album (Черный Альбом) is widely held to be one of the best of Russian protest rock of the 80s/90s.
> 
> Finally, this fic is dedicated to the real Val Pender - poets walk away into this final autumn, and you cannot bring them back; the blinds are nailed shut.
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading, commenting and enjoying this fic! It's been a real pleasure to write it and hopefully I'll be back soon with more Berena goodness <3

**Author's Note:**

> Brixton Riots (10-12 April 1981).  
> Law change in Scotland: Criminal Justice (Scotland) Act 1980 decriminalised homosexual acts between two consenting men over the age of 21 in private. Note that lesbianism was never formally criminalised (because of antiquated and Victorian ideas of female sexuality as being essentially passive) but the social stigma was still very real.


End file.
